Securing the Post

Dusk settled in, and a loose picket at the corner of the garden fence rattled against the crossbeam. A rattling boundary is an untrustworthy boundary. I wedged a sturdy flat slate stone directly into the dark soil beneath the post, drove my shoulder into the wooden plank to straighten its line, and hammered a thick, rusted iron nail partway into the seam with the solid base of my fist. The wood pinched tight with a sharp creak. I gave the post a firm shove. It did not yield. The corner stands fortified for the night.